[ultimate_heading main_heading=”Poems by Xavier Oquendo Troncoso – Issue.XXVII : April 2017 ” main_heading_color=”#1e73be” sub_heading_color=”#8224e3″ spacer=”line_with_icon” spacer_position=”bottom” line_style=”dotted” line_height=”1″ line_color=”#1e73be” icon_type=”custom” icon_img=”id^48|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ashvamegh-ICO.jpg|caption^null|alt^Ashvamegh Journal Icon|title^Ashvamegh ICO|description^null” img_width=”48″ main_heading_style=”font-weight:bold;” main_heading_font_size=”desktop:34px;” line_width=”3″ margin_design_tab_text=””]meeting the voices…[/ultimate_heading]

About the Poet:

Xavier Oquendo TroncosoXavier Oquendo Troncoso studied journalism at the Central University of Ecuador. He works with the Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana to organize and participate in readings and presentations throughout Ecuador and South America. Originally from Ambato, Ecuador, he currently lives in Quito, Ecuador.


* below the translated versions, you will find the original poems 

* the name of the translator is given below the translated version



The I Of The Cold


All of the man I carry

is wrapped in this gray morning

that fails to convince the skin.


There is only fog outside

and foam in the sky.


Today the man I carry

doesn’t want to break me

nor push me to his abyss.


(Translated by Ana Blum)



El Yo Del Frío


Todo el hombre que llevo

se halla enlatado en esta mañana gris

que no convence a la piel.


Afuera solo hay niebla

y espuma en el cielo.


Hoy el hombre que llevo

no quiere deshacerme

ni empujarme a su vacío.






Counting The Facts


We all went.


Behind us we heard the explosive sounds of the party,

the red glow of the bars,

the blue drinks that used to love us,

and the bender’s uneven gait.


Then, the dawn, with the smell of honey.

The friends asleep, huddled

like a well of birdsong,

like an apple tree full of fruit.


We were together, only the wind was alone.

The others, the other us,

one in the solitude of the new day.


We all suffered and that was happiness.


(Translated by Ana Blum, Poet & Writer)



Recuento De Los Hechos


Todos nos fuimos.


Atrás se escucha el torpedo de la fiesta,

la corona roja de los bares,

el aguardiente azul que nos amaba

y la marcha desigual de la jarana.


Después, la madrugada con olor a miel.

Los amigos dormidos, amontonados

como un pozo de trinos,

como un manzano cargado.


Éramos todos, solo el viento era solo.

Los demás, los otros nosotros,

éramos uno en la soledad del nuevo día.


Nos dolíamos juntos y eso era la felicidad.

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